


The lavender girl (with her hair in curls)

by museumofbone



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Also as a warning I have never had sex or even kissed anyone so please forgive me, Canon Era, F/F, Femslash, I'll probably rewrite this, Mild Sexual Content, Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3085427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museumofbone/pseuds/museumofbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana is fire and Gwen - well, Gwen is home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The lavender girl (with her hair in curls)

It's strange, maybe, that she would want to be with you. She's all soft smiles and bringing you flowers to cheer you up and the voice that anchors you in the dark, after a nightmare. Gwen is warm and comforting and you're all hipbones and sharp collarbones, fatherless and rough around the edges. You don't know how to be anything but a warrior. You've never been able to trust someone, not like her. 

  


_Eleven_  
You're a young, haughty thing, aloof because that's the only way to protect yourself. Arthur is kind, albeit rather arrogant at times, and Uther - well, you must admit that you're desperate for a friend. Children in the court are scarce, and the village children are frightened of your proud manner and your status in the kingdom. 

Uther announces you're to have a maid of your own, around your own age, to be your companion. A small, timid girl, but there's a strength in her soft eyes and kind smile. She's called Guinevere - _Gwen_ , she says shyly - and you think she's lovely. Gwen wears a pale lavender dress that's badly in need of mending, and there's a bit of lace she wears in her hair some days, and you wonder how it is possible to feel as though you know someone you've only just met. 

She notices how tired your eyes are sometimes, how you have to turn away when she talks fondly of her father, her brother, happy years of her childhood spent running alongside the brook, making crowns of flowers and laughing in the summer sunlight. She begins to tell you stories, not of knights and castles, but of fairies and Druids and peasant folk. You like to imagine yourself in the stories, with Gwen next to you, a comforting hand in yours as she leads you into a world of magic and Midsummer, love strong as honeysuckle, and someone, perhaps, like a mother, waiting at the door of a small cottage to call you inside.

 

 _Thirteen_  
Court gossip is exasperating, you think, especially when older ladies preen at you and hint that someday, soon, you'll be all grown up and fit to marry. Marry a prince, they say, perhaps even Arthur. Arthur feels like a brother to you, though, and even though you aren't naive enough to think that you'll be free to marry for love, you know that marriage isn't what you want. You try to imagine a gallant knight on a handsome white horse, but all you can think of is your friendship with Gwen and how affection for her burns hot inside you. You aren't sure, then, what it means, but you already know you'll never love another like you love her.

The first time you kissed her, she tensed up and you pulled back, unsure. Maybe you were wrong, maybe she didn't want to kiss you - how could she possibly want you? _Do you want to kiss me, my lady?_ she asked, choosing her words carefully, her eyes cloudy. 

_Only if you want to kiss me, Gwen,_ you say, with your throat closing up. She smiles then, shyly, and kisses your cheek, like you're simply two poor farm girls playing house, playing at having a family, out in the meadows with the summer sun turning you to gold on the insides.

 

 _Seventeen_  
Neither of you are certain -it's not something that's talked about, especially not for royal wards and ladies-in-wait. There's only this to go on, the wanting - her sighs breathing into you, the way your voice catches in your throat when she laughs, purple dress splayed in the grass. And - oh - the feel of her hand on your hip bone, the way her body juts into yours. And you know where to trace your fingertips along her spine and down her forearms until you're both in ecstasy.  
  
  
 _Later_  
It's been years now, since you've held her, your lavender girl with her crowns of flowers and tales of gold. It's been years since you let yourself be soft and pliant to her touch, since you let yourself turn to her after a nightmare or a lonesome day. Maybe you should've known, that she was all sunlight, and you were all moon. You were steel cut from a dragon's breath, a sword waiting to be unsheathed, and you think of how you cut her down, pushed her aside like a rag doll, left her bleeding on the steps of Camelot. You think of her skin soft as winter's snow, how you left her in your bed, wounded and vulnerable. She could never love you, not anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> There isn't enough femslash in the world, and I love these two and wanted to do something productive with my time instead of just crying over fictional characters. (Not that there's anything wrong with that, I suppose.) Also, I was reading some fanfics I've previously written, and I really want to write more, especially because I hardly write much of anything lately and I do miss it. This is the result - some very rough drabbles about Gwen and Morgana. Happy new year, lovelies.


End file.
